


Reflections

by sjoon



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Gender Not Specified, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Smut, Smut But With Exposition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23829160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sjoon/pseuds/sjoon
Summary: Asra is left to his own devices to learn to connect to others through the use of projecting through water, and he can't seem to manage it-- well, until he gets caught with his hand down his pants. Oops.NB apprentice with they/them pronouns, mostly Asra alone being a lovesick puppy and touching himself. Nothing too crazy.
Relationships: Apprentice & Asra (The Arcana), Apprentice/Asra (The Arcana), Asra (The Arcana)/Reader, Asra (The Arcana)/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 202





	Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-read. I usually write in one sitting but this was actually about three or four, so I apologize if my language is repetitive anywhere.
> 
> The same apprentice as from "To Ignite a Flame", as requested in the comments of aforementioned fic. This takes place slightly after that one, but you don't need to have read it to follow what's going on here. 
> 
> Story doesn't contain spoilers, but this last note does:  
>  The apprentice is called the magician because this is set basically pre-canon? I'm playing it as if the magician was originally MC/the apprentice, and they were the one who originally taught him magic before they died. I also use the term 'magician' to replace 'apprentice' because I hate to name to the MC when I write things like this just because of that sweet self-or-oc-insert action.  
>  Because otherwise I might have to use, like y/n or something, and that's really not the vibe I want.
> 
> Asra is also a bit younger in this because... pre-canon, so I tried to make him seem a little less mysterious & mature. If I were to assign a number to his age here, it would probably be about 19-20, and he would have most likely met the apprentice around age 16-17? So they've lived together a couple years in this.

There was a feeling in the air which had wormed deep into his lungs, and it felt now as if he was, somehow, filled with bees. Asra was aware that he was not, in fact, filled with bees—but that was the closest thing he could use to describe the restless anxiety that tingled through his limbs. Something about today was off, and it had been off since last night, or—perhaps that was just a side effect of the exercise the magician had left him with not going entirely as planned.

_Look into the water, and listen_ , they’d said, as they’d set the low bowl afront him and gone on their way. When he had asked, quite logically, what exactly he was listening for, the magician had replied—though with a cryptic-as-ever _you’ll know when you hear it_. This was not an unusual teaching technique, and as much as Asra loved to be left to his own devices… he was starting to fear this sort of divination was beyond him.

He could feel the magic in the air, and the way the water rippled away from his fingers as he drew his fingers above the surface; the ceramic dish shining iridescent in the candlelight. Every crack and crevice and chip in the glaze were burned into Asra’s memory; he’d been staring at the plate for days. Two, to be specific, but that still counted as multiple days, and at this point he realized he’s been muttering half of these thoughts aloud.

Red eyes stare him down, glinting as thin, forked tongue flicks out. Faust, from her perch on the thick, wooden beams above, is laughing at him; in her own way.   
“Stop that.” Asra snaps, though not meanly, with all the sarcastic spite that only an adolescent could harbor. “I’m doing my best, **really**.” Faust only seems to be more amused, and continues her journey to the half-open window, desiring to bask in the rays of midday sun.

He wasn’t actively trying his best, at this particular moment; and he knew that, too—he’d stopped doing his best when it had become utter torture to stare into the water. His vision had gone dotty, and his head had started to ache from concentrating, but he’d come back to it. Over and over because he didn’t want the magician to be disappointed in him. Tanned fingers wind around snowy, curled strand, worrying at the end until it broke.

Much like his patience. He still felt the bees.

When the magician had left, they had not said much about why; merely packed a bag and left. He was left to wonder how long they would be gone, not knowing when they would be back. It felt like his life had gone from his own, to centered around the magician. He wanted to have that air of mystery, that complete understanding of magic, he wanted what they had; or, he wanted them. Asra couldn’t be sure; some days, it was one or the other, sometimes both—

Today was a day where he wanted them. Missed them. Saw their eyes every time he closed his.

He abandons the water dish, burying the short flush of shame—unknowing that it will return en force later. Hands become busy with anything he can think of—chores, organizing, anything. Time barely seems to pass, though the ticking of the clock keeps rhythm with every pass of the broom on the uneven swirls of set brick that make up the shop floor. The glass of the counters, though old and cracked, sparkle brightly, the shelves are no longer weighed down by a thin layer of dust, the books have been organized and re-organized and he can’t help but still feel something is out of place.

Defeated, Asra swats the sign on the front door to closed and stalks up the thin, rickety spiral stairs nestled in the back of the store. It seemed that no matter how much he did or how busy he made himself, the buzzing would remain incessant. Walking with the (direction) of someone who knew every bump in the floor by heart, he moves through the small upstairs living space, eyes half closed. Grasp finds worn edge of shawl draped over the back on a chair, and with a single sweeping motion, he wraps the thing around his shoulders.

The fabric drapes loosely around him, the saturated magenta of the velvet burnout a stark contrast to the golden looped edging. Falling back onto the thin bed they share, his senses are overtaken by memory—the fabric around him all smells so strongly of them still, and his cheeks burn—the buzzing risen to the surface.

Today was a day where he loved them.

Perhaps when he had first made his home here, he could have understood—he was too young, too new, too much of a thousand things. Made too much of a mess, talked too much, thought too much; but Asra could dream of a time where the magician would fall in love with him the same way he had with them. To be the one to guide them into magic, to hold their hand until all they could see was him; what that would be-- Another life, maybe. 

He wonders, absently, what it would be like to kiss them—

It was a train of thought familiar to him, one which plagued him whenever they spoke. Soft, purplish eyes would trace the shape of their lips, dreaming of pressing his own lips to them, and fearing what would happen when his patience might finally snap, and he gave in. Fingertips trace the whorls of the pattern etched into velvet, motions repeating over the surface until his skin went numb.

Meandering thoughts turn sharply from innocent; the buzzing transformed into a bone-deep longing to hold them against him. Endlessly romantic even in his fantasies, Asra imagines what it might be like to hold them, to kiss them until their lips were red, to run his fingers through their hair. He wanted them to teach him this, too—teach him how to touch them and make them moan his name.

The way they instruct him is suited more to sex than magic; the vague instructions, and the way they place his hands over his and tell him to feel it.   
“Take a breath.” They say, voice clear in his mind as they take his hands and press his touch to their skin, clothes falling away easily as Asra feels their warmth. His eyes are closed, but the image of them printed onto the back of his eyelids is perfect; they’re perfect, and he takes every chance he can to look.

“What do you feel?” The magician asks, the question a familiar one from near every lesson they taught him.   
“ _Love_.” He says, aloud, and the sound of his own voice startles him to reality.

Reality was the seams of his trousers strained and the shawl scrunched into clutched ball, pressed against burning cheeks. He felt fortunate that he was alone, for in the company of only his thoughts he could be bold, nuzzling pinking cheeks into the fabric and winding at the laces of his breeches with free hand.

Pressure assuaged, breath escapes him when he ducks his hand beneath, warm air settling into the shawl and filling his head with the same scent of sweet sandalwood—of honey and herbs and something which he could only give the affectionate label of safety. Asra fidgets quietly, nudging his pants down his thighs with subtle motion; hand coming fully to grip his dick, it’s clumsy but it’s enough to quiet the thrumming under tanned skin, the incessant craving melting to a lustful fog. Thoughts momentarily suspend in favor of hazy memories; hot summer nights with the windows open and clothes left in colorful piles on the floor because it was simply too warm to keep them on. The skin of the magician’s— _his_ magician’s—back against his own.

His free hand slips from the soft fabric to the wood of the bedside table, fingers brushing against the glass water pitcher as he touches himself. The backs of Asra’s eyelids are awash with images of them, fantasy unspecific and ever-changing as he wishes desperately that the fingertips teasing up his length were theirs, and not his. He’s barely done much, but he’s stiff and aching at the mere thought of them,

The more he touches, the more the vision of them in his mind becomes more distinct, image sharpening until it feels almost like he can hear them calling his name, far off at first, and them closer—almost as if they’re right beside him.   
“Asra?” They call out, and this time it’s just a bit too clear, too close. Lavender eyes open, cloudy beneath snowy lashes, and he can see them.

Oh, gods. _He can see them_.

A reflection in the water pitcher, rippling slightly, but unmistakably his mentor. His cheeks, though burning before, feel now as if he might be able to burst into flame;   
“I—” He barely manages to get anything out at all, movement stilling as he swallows hard. Was it obvious what he had been doing? How much of him could they see? Panic was setting in quickly, but the sight of the magician’s smile calmed him; if only slightly.

“You did it.” They praise, with that honest, enchanting smile; “I knew you could.”  
“I did.” He responds, in disbelief at his own stupid luck. He’d been so focused on the thought of them that be must have connected to them when his hand had brushed up against the pitcher. Though, that was a fair amount of time ago, wasn’t it? How much had they seen?

Asra’s movement had stopped entirely but his cock throbs in his grasp, and he bites down hard on his lip to try and keep from groaning. It’s one thing to think of someone, and another to know they’re right there beside you, even if not physically, and the thrill warms his core and tingles up his spine.

“I’m proud of you.” The magician says; the sincerity of their gaze on him and the affection in their voice pushes him to the edge, and Asra gasps their name as he spills over his fist—equal parts satisfied and embarrassed and utterly terrified. His hand twitches away from the jug and the images fades into the water, he’s not sure when the connection breaks, but the last thing they say to him is cut off as he whispers that he loves them;

Only half-hoping they’d hear.

Falling back onto the cushions, Asra runs his clean hand through his mess of pale curls, sighing and cursing softly.   
“Stupid.” He chastises himself, embarrassed and sticky.

There’s no telling what will happen when the magician returns home, and he’s just as scared as he is quietly excited.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, leave a kudo or a comment please?? they fuel my will to live.
> 
> If there's other characters/things you'd like to read about from me that are arcana related... let me know with one of those comments? I work best with suggestions. (Which like, obv. This fic was a suggestion so!!)
> 
> Also I do nsfw art sometimes and you can find that on twitter under @princeofcocks, thx


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